


who cannot go

by susiecarter



Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Delirium, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extra Treat, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27386614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: Maverick felt fine. Completely fine.
Relationships: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell
Comments: 27
Kudos: 115
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2020





	who cannot go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boasamishipper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boasamishipper/gifts).



> A thousand apologies for the lateness of this treat—I couldn't help but jump on your prompts for a sick Maverick who thinks he's talking to Goose, and Iceman taking care of him, even if it took a few extra days to actually get it done. ♥ (I also couldn't figure out whether this counted as a trick or a treat, since I turned your trick prompt into fluff by the end. /o\\) I just hope you enjoy this, and happy (belated) ToT!
> 
> Title from the poem "[Heart Who Stays](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=20972)" by Marguerite Young.

Maverick felt fine. Completely fine.

He just needed somewhere to sit down for a minute, that was all. He just needed somewhere to sit down until the world stopped tilting underneath him, and then he'd get up again and finish getting dressed, get himself into a cockpit. Then he'd be all right. Nothing could touch him when he was in the sky.

He aimed for the bench. He missed, somehow; it didn't stay still the way it was supposed to, and his ass went right past it. He grabbed at it with his hands, blinking hard, and caught himself about an inch from the floor, arms aching, head swimming with the effort. Then he let himself drop, and oh, yeah, sitting down had definitely been a good idea. He could brace himself, let everything sway its way past him without worrying about keeping up with it.

He was fine. Definitely fine. His head was, maybe, a little heavy—felt huge, cotton-stuffed and swollen, loose on his neck. But there was nobody else in here, so it was okay if he let it fall back against the edge of the bench, if he stopped making himself hold it up for a minute.

His gut was lurching, cramping. He felt hot one second, cold the next. He was sweating straight through his shirt, he could feel it. Everything ached, not just his arms.

But he could handle it. Obviously he could handle it. He could handle it, and he was going to get his legs back under him and stand up and keep going, because he was fine.

He just needed to rest here for a second. That was all.

"Maverick. Maverick? Goddammit, Maverick—"

Maverick swam up out of the dark. He was so far down, it was hard to do; the dark didn't want to let him go, sticking, clinging, swarming around the edges of his vision. Everything was blurry anyway, twisting queasily back and forth in front of him.

"Mav—jesus, fuck, _fuck_ ," and then there were more noises that weren't words, somebody moving, touching him—gripping his shoulder, his face, turning him to face them.

Maverick blinked a few times, slow, and swallowed. "Hey," he said after a second, belated protest against the implacable hand that was closed on his jaw.

"Dumbass," Iceman bit out, clear and cool and steady, eyes sharp. "I fucking knew it. I fucking knew there was something wrong." His mouth twisted. "Should've known you wouldn't say anything, you stubborn son of a—"

"I'm fine," Maverick said, and Iceman made a disdainful sound through his nose.

Maverick was looking at him, and then wasn't. He didn't know why; no, he did. His eyes had closed, that was it. He struggled with them furiously, clawed them halfway open again, and then his breath caught in his throat.

"Goose," he said.

Goose tensed all over, mouth pressed into a flat line, staring at him, throat working. His hand turned gentle against Maverick's face, and he drew a slow breath and said, "Maverick," almost cautiously.

"Goose," Maverick said, hoarse; his eyes filled and he let them. "Goose, I'm so sorry."

Goose squeezed his eyes shut and swore quietly, viciously. And then he looked at Maverick again, and said, "I know you are. It's okay."

Maverick reached for him, fumbling; his wrist, for the hand that was touching Maverick's face, and his other hand had gone to Maverick's back, just under the blade of one shoulder, so Maverick gripped him by the arm instead. "I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to kill you."

"You didn't," Goose said, so softly and steadily Maverick could almost believe it. "It was an accident, Mav."

Maverick shook his head, closed his eyes and felt them spill over. "I'm sorry," he said again, strained, throat tight. "Please. Please."

"Maverick—"

"Don't go," Maverick said.

Goose went quiet.

"Don't leave me," and god, he needed to shut the fuck up, he'd—he'd been doing so well _not_ saying this, not letting it out where anybody could see it; except it was Goose he was saying it to. That made it okay, didn't it? It was Goose, and Goose was dead, so he couldn't tell anybody. He wouldn't hold it against Maverick. He wasn't holding his own fucking _death_ against Maverick, goddamn him. So it didn't matter that Maverick was begging for something he didn't deserve. Goose would take mercy on him, if anybody would.

"Jesus, Maverick," Goose said, very softly.

"Please don't leave me again," Maverick said, clutching at him, breath hitching. "Everybody—everybody always—"

He couldn't get it out; his throat closed up, aching, and he couldn't get it out.

His father. Cougar. Goose. Every RIO they'd tried to give him since Goose, one after another. Even Charlie, Charlie who'd said she'd be there for him, and then she'd driven away and left too. Everybody. Everybody always—

"I won't," Goose said.

Maverick swallowed, eyes screwed shut, and dug his teeth into his lip. Goose couldn't promise that. Could he? He was dead.

But he felt so solid under Maverick's hands. He felt solid, and firm, and real. His voice had been quiet, still, but steady—sure. He'd sounded sure.

He was still touching Maverick's face, his jaw, holding him; his hands were steady, too.

"I won't. You hear me? Huh?"

Maverick bit his mouth harder, blinked his eyes open. Goose was still there after all.

"I hear you," he rasped.

"Good," Goose said, sharp, certain.

He didn't sound like Goose. He sounded like—

"I don't quit that easy," Iceman said, and Maverick wanted to ask him where Goose had gone, but he couldn't form the words, couldn't hold on; everything was dark, and then he was gone.

Maverick came around aching, head like it was in a vise, mouth dry. He didn't know where he was, couldn't figure out how to get his eyes open wide enough to check.

And then, dimly, he did know. There was beeping, soft but regular. Sticky pull of tape against the back of his hand—a faint cool rush under the skin. IV, he thought, and sucked in a breath, because shit, this had to be the last straw: getting himself benched _now_ , barely a week out from graduation—

"Maverick," somebody said.

And Maverick got his eyes open after all, and looked over.

"Iceman," he rasped out, bewildered.

Iceman had been staring at him hard, searching, eyes unreadable; nothing about his face changed, when Maverick said his name, but there was something about the way he'd been sitting, the way the line of his shoulders shifted, that made Maverick think he was—relieved?

"You jackass," Iceman said. "What the hell did you think you were doing, trying to suit up like that?"

"I was fine," Maverick croaked, blinking. "You were—you were there."

"Yeah," Iceman agreed. "I found you on the fucking floor. You couldn't even stand up. I had to—"

He bit the words off, hands clenching briefly into fists. He was sitting in a chair, next to the bed Maverick was in, and he looked like shit, pissed off and tired at the same time: mouth tight, jaw set, little creasing frown lines around his eyes.

"You're still here," Maverick said blankly.

That made Iceman look at him again. He just stared, for a second. And then suddenly his eyes fell shut. He drew a slow breath, and didn't move at all. And then he swallowed, throat working, and looked at Maverick again, and said, real evenly, "Yeah. I am."

It was—it was weird to hear. It was weird to hear it like that, pointed, deliberately enunciated; and it was weird to hear it from—from Iceman, who wasn't—who didn't even—

"You want me to leave," Iceman added, "you give it your best shot. Pretty sure I can take you."

Maverick laughed, sort of, through his nose. It was funny. It was funny, and also Iceman was an asshole, so he didn't know why his eyes were stinging.

"Maverick," Iceman said again, quieter, and then—cool, unhesitating, like he had every move planned out in advance, the same way he did anything unbelievably fucking dangerous—he reached out and touched Maverick's hand. Took it, lifted it up, and without looking away from Maverick's face, pressed his mouth to the knuckles, firm and unmistakable.

He didn't linger over it. When he was done, he was done, and he set Maverick's hand back down and lifted his chin a little, like he was challenging Maverick to do something about it.

But Maverick could see his chest, the breath coming quick—could see his pulse at the base of his throat.

It was late, had to be, the lights dim. Nobody was around; nobody had seen him. But Maverick couldn't help thinking it wouldn't have mattered, not once Ice had decided he was going to do it. He'd have done it even if Jester had been standing right next to him.

Maverick bit down on the inside of his cheek. His heart was pounding.

"I'm not going anywhere," Iceman said.

Maverick swallowed, and left his hand where Iceman had put it: an inch from Iceman's, resting on the sheets. "Okay," he said, hoarse.

"Jesus, go back to sleep," Iceman told him, and his voice sounded the same but his face, his eyes, were—Maverick could hardly figure out how to look away from him.

"Be here when I wake up," Maverick said, and he made it goading, a counter-offer, because some part of him was still raw and quivering, unable to bear to ask.

Iceman looked at him like he knew anyway, and said, "I will be."

And Maverick lay there and closed his eyes, and believed it.


End file.
